Chapter 31: The Guilt Wave

The days following my final surrender felt like walking underwater. Slow, silent, and heavy. The silence was the worst part. There was no more panic about bills, no more frantic calls to suppliers, no more dread of the bank statement. That chaos had been replaced by a profound, cold stillness. My anxiety, the constant background hum of my life, was gone, but so was my sense of self.

The twins were pleased. They treated me with a strange, possessive gentleness now, a dark affection that came with total surveillance. I had peace, but it felt like a peace achieved after death.

I was sitting in the immaculate glass studio, the city skyline blurring outside, when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Mom.

Leo, can you spare an hour this afternoon? I’m near the Conservatory Garden. I just need a proper hug before the madness of Friday's planning starts. I miss you!

The message was a bright, simple splash of color in my monochrome cage. My mind instantly seized on it. Normalcy.

I hesitated, knowing I needed to clear it with the twins. But the urge for a moment without their shadow, a moment of unfiltered, non-strategic connection, was overwhelming. I knew they watched every message, but I didn't care.

The meeting is approved, Leo. Do not deviate from the schedule. Two hours maximum.

The text from Ivan arrived instantly, cold and precise, eliminating my tiny moment of rebellion. Even a hug was a sanctioned event.

The driver dropped me off a block away from the garden entrance. I walked the rest of the way, shedding the heavy weight of the Residence with every step.

I found Mom sitting on a low, stone wall, surrounded by flowering hydrangeas. She looked like a woman who had finally found the warmth after years in the cold. She wasn’t wearing the heavy designer clothes Arthur bought her; she wore a simple, soft sweater, looking like the mother I remembered from my childhood.

"There you are, my darling," she said, rising with a joyous, uncomplicated smile that seemed to light up the whole garden.

She rushed forward and wrapped me in a hug. My arms went around her tightly, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel a cold, iron weight on my back. I felt warmth and familiarity.

We settled onto a bench, and she started talking, her voice flowing easily as she described the last few weeks—her fittings, the guest list, the excitement of finally having financial stability that didn't rely on my struggling gallery.

"You won't believe the things Arthur does, Leo," she sighed happily, shaking her head. "He’s a whirlwind. And the boys are amazing. I know they're difficult, but they look after us, don't they? They took care of everything. They even had Dmitri call my old accountant to make sure all my retirement funds were invested properly. Everything is perfect, Leo. Absolutely perfect."

My mind was paralyzed by the lie I was living. Every single word of gratitude she spoke felt like a twist of a knife.

"They are very organized, Mom," I managed, my voice sounding strained.

"More than that," she insisted, turning to face me fully, her eyes soft with emotion. "They’re protective. Especially of you. Arthur told me that Dmitri had his team do a full review of your gallery’s history, and he caught some terrible things that your old partner was hiding. They fixed it all. They made the gallery secure. They made you secure."

She reached out and took both of my hands, holding them tightly. This was the moment the cognitive dissonance—the terrible clash between the truth and the performance—became unbearable.

"And look at you, sweetie," she continued, her voice thick with pure, innocent pride. "You don't have those dark circles anymore. You’re calmer. You don't jump every time the phone rings. I know you've been working hard, but you finally look like you can breathe. I know they're not our flesh and blood, but honestly, Leo, sometimes I look at Dmitri and Ivan, and I just think... they are the strongest shield you could ever have. They are keeping us safe. They are fixing the things I couldn't fix."

My mind was a chaotic symphony of screaming panic. She thinks the stability is because of their love. She thinks they fixed my life. But I am the glitch. I am the filthy, dark secret that will annihilate her peace when it comes out.

This is the true cost. Not my surrender, but her trusting, innocent happiness.

I could hear Ivan’s voice in my head, cold and reasonable: Her happiness is guaranteed by our wealth. It is a necessary cost for your stability. She wouldn't be this happy if you were still facing ruin.

But seeing her face, illuminated by the genuine, untroubled joy she felt, made that logic crumble into dust. I couldn't do it. I couldn't be the source of the betrayal that would shatter her. The Volkovs controlled everything else, but they didn't control my fundamental, absolute need to protect Mom's peace of mind.

The fear of Dmitri’s inevitable, crushing wrath—the wrath that had eliminated a harmless curator—was immense. But the terror of seeing the trust drain from Mom's eyes and be replaced by heartbreak was suddenly, overwhelmingly stronger.

I felt a sudden rush of cold energy, a desperate clarity. I have to end this. I have to break the Vow.

I pulled my hands away gently and stood up, trying to appear nonchalant while my legs shook beneath me.

"I need to go, Mom," I said, the words strained and sharp. "I have a lot of work. The 'Sculpture' deadline is getting closer, and Ivan is relentless with the timelines."

"Oh, of course, darling," she said, instantly concerned, standing up to face me. "Don't overwork yourself. But promise me you’ll eat properly tonight. You still look a little thin."

"I promise," I repeated, pulling her into another hug—this one tighter, more desperate, a final, fervent claim on the innocent relationship. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I failed you. But I won't let them take this from you.

I pulled away quickly, before the tears could betray me. "I love you, Mom. I'll see you at the big planning dinner on Friday."

"I love you too, sweetie," she called after me, her voice filled with warmth. "Go and create beautiful things!"

I walked away from her, toward the anonymity of the street, toward the waiting, silent black car. I didn't look back. I couldn't.

I slid into the plush back seat. The attendant closed the door, sealing me back into the secure, silent cage. My heart was pounding, but my mind was utterly resolved.

They will refuse. They will use her against me. They will threaten to expose everything—my secret life, the lie I told her, my sexuality.

But I cannot stay here. I cannot be the reason her face loses that light.

The final, desperate decision was made. I had to run. I had to find a way out tonight. I didn't care about the consequences for myself. I only cared about getting away from the source of the lie before it poisoned my mother’s perfect, fragile new life. The guilt was paralyzing me, but that paralysis wa

s finally forcing my feet to move.